Читать книгу Falling for the Mum-to-Be - Lynne Marshall - Страница 7

Chapter One

The last place Leif Andersen wanted to be was the Portland airport. An avowed loner, he didn’t look forward to sharing his home—his sanctuary—with a stranger. But that was what he got for owning the biggest and emptiest house in Heartlandia, and it was the imposition he’d accepted on behalf of the town mural.

The absolute last thing he expected to find was this woman sporting a female version of a bolero hat, black gaucho boots and a sunset-colored wrap waiting beside the baggage claim. That had to be her—who else could it be? In all honesty, what should he have expected from an artist from Sedona? She was probably dripping with turquoise underneath that poncho, too.

Attitude adjustment, buddy. This is for the greater good. You volunteered.

Approaching the conspicuous woman, he called out, “Marta Hoyas?”

She turned her head and nodded demurely. All business, or plain old standoffish—he couldn’t tell from here. Maybe she thought he was a chauffeur, but he worried about a long and awkward ride home in either case.

He approached and, seeing her more closely, was taken aback by her appearance. The term striking came to mind. He offered his hand. “I’m Leif Andersen.” She’d already been notified by Elke Norling that she’d be staying at his home for the duration of her mural painting.

Marta had olive skin with black walnut eyes, the color of his favorite wood for woodworking projects. They tilted upward above her cheekbones, accented by black feathery arched brows. A straight, pointy-tipped nose led to her mauve-colored lips. Nice. Rather than smile she made a tense, tight line, jutting out a strong chin. Her raven hair was pulled back under the hat brim in a low ponytail that hung halfway down her back. She’d qualify for beautiful if she didn’t look so damn stiff.

“Good to meet you.” Marta said the words, but combined with her weak handshake, Leif had a hard time believing them. However, years in construction had left him unaware of his own power. Maybe he’d crunched her fingers too hard.

“Just point out your bags and I’ll get them for you,” he said, focusing back on the task at hand and not the unsettling woman to his right. Again, she nodded. Hmm, not much for conversation, and truth was, that suited him just fine. He wasn’t looking for a friend or female company. Having lived alone for the past three years in his five-bedroom, three-thousand-plus square foot home that he’d built, well, having another person around was going to take major adjustment. So far, she seemed as much of a recluse as him, and she’d probably get lost in that great big house just like he did. They’d probably never even run into each other. Good.

She pointed at a large purple—why wasn’t he surprised?—suitcase rounding the corner on the carousel and he pulled it off. Then another. And another. Had she moved her entire wardrobe?

“Let’s take these to the curb, then you can wait while I bring the car around. Sound like a plan?”

“Fine. Thanks.”

He rolled two suitcases. She rolled the third, plus her carry-on bag to the curb. Then he strode off, vowing not to feel compelled to get this one to talk. She wasn’t here to talk. She’d come to Heartlandia to paint a magnificent mural on the city college walls, one that would depict the city’s history and live up to the beauty of her great-great-grandfather’s beloved town monument.

Making the trek to his car, he decided Marta wasn’t exactly standoffish. He’d only just met her and shouldn’t make a snap judgment. She was definitely distant and quiet, but something in the way she carried herself portrayed pride. Maybe taking a mural-painting job for a small town was a step down for her?

He’d studied her website when the college had made their final decision. She had a solid reputation and did art shows across the country but mostly in her home state of Arizona. Some of her work hung in modern-art museums and at US universities. The kind of painting she did, as best as he could describe it, and he definitely wasn’t an expert, was Postimpressionism. She liked large canvases and big subjects. The style seemed well suited for their historical mural needs.

In a world of pop and abstract art, he appreciated her use of vivid colors and real-life subject matter. Hers were paintings where he knew what he was looking at without having to turn his head this way and that, squint to figure it out and then make a guess. What he liked most was her use of intense colors to make her point. In that way she was bold and unrestrained, unlike the quiet woman beneath the bold and unrestrained clothing he’d just met. Bottom line, this style would stand out on a wall at their local college, and that was all that was important.

As he drove toward the curb to pick her up, it occurred to him that beneath her cool exterior, deep under the surface, maybe all was not right in Marta Hoyas’s world. This was one of the traits he’d developed since he’d lost everything he loved—an uncanny ability to read people, especially in the pain and suffering department. He could spot sad people anywhere. Saw the same look on his own face every day when he shaved. Yep, he’d go easy on the woman, and maybe they’d work out a compromise for living under the same roof for God only knew how long it would take her to paint that mural. This, too, he would survive.

He stopped at the passenger pickup curb. She got in while he put all three bags in the bed of his covered pickup truck. Being in construction since he was eighteen—he still couldn’t believe it had been twenty-four years since he’d joined his father’s business—there was just no point in driving a nice car.

“You ever been to Oregon?” he asked once he got back into the cab.

“Not in many years.”

“Ever see your great-great-grandfather’s monument?”

At last, a little sparkle of life in her dark eyes. “Yes. When I was fifteen. Beautiful.”

She removed her hat, and he was struck again by her beauty. An uneasy feeling, one he hadn’t experienced in years, demanded his attention, and it rattled him.

You’re a man, damn it. You’ve always loved women. Quit thinking like a priest.

Too bad he was hell-bent on living with a dead heart. Didn’t matter what this woman did to his pulse. Losing Ellen to cancer had left him devastated. The thought of ever again going through anything close to that—loving someone with all of his heart and soul and losing them—had shut him down. Never again.

So how the hell could he explain the humming feeling under his ribs and down to his fingertips when he looked into her dark and mysterious gaze? She crossed one booted leg over the other and stretched forward to adjust the seat belt, jutting out her chest in the process.

“Can I help you with that?” he asked, trying his damnedest not to notice her breasts.

“I’ve got it. Thanks.”

He focused back on driving, vowing to only look straight ahead from that moment on.

Typical of Oregon weather in late September, it drizzled as he exited the Portland airport and headed toward the freeway. Being three o’clock, it would be after five before they got back to Heartlandia this Saturday afternoon. And because she had yet to utter more than ten words, and he didn’t exactly feel like playing twenty questions, Leif gripped the steering wheel a little tighter and hunkered down for what he’d expected since first laying eyes on her—an extralong drive home, punctuated by awkward and strained silence. Like right now.

He swallowed. Fine with him.

* * *

Marta stared out the window, struck by how green everything was. What should she expect from a place that got more than forty inches of rain a year? Compared to her red-rock desert home, anyplace would look green. She glanced at Leif’s profile. If he ground his molars any tighter, he’d break through his jaw. His weathered fair complexion, darkened by his outdoor work—she’d been told his was the construction company that had built Heartlandia City College—made him look in his midforties...like Lawrence. She shook her head, trying to ward off any more thoughts about her benefactor, and wasn’t that all he’d wound up being? Her ex-benefactor...and ex-lover.

For five years she’d given up everything for him. Five years she’d traveled with him, met the people he thought she should meet for her career. Respected his boundaries and accepted his terms. Evidently Marta was only worthy of being his significant other. It had suited their relationship well for the first year. Hell, she’d even set up the rules. She’d rebelled against her parents’ traditional marriage. Pooh-poohed her father’s favorite saying: “A love like ours only comes once in a lifetime.” Heck, she’d been through half a dozen boyfriends by the time she was twenty-two, and not a single one had been interested in anything beyond the here and now. That kind of love was passé. She hid behind her rebellious facade, the edgy artist, and tried to believe it didn’t matter that no man had come close to loving her the way her father loved her mother. But they were so old-fashioned. Old school. She was a modern woman.

It had worked well with Lawrence at first, what with her traveling and long hours in her art studio—the studio he’d financed and built for her. But surprise, surprise, she’d fallen for him anyway, and celebrating her thirtieth birthday had made her long for something permanent. Something that said he held her above all others, that she wasn’t replaceable. For three more years she’d settled for focusing on her art and waiting, but then her mother died and put a whole new perspective on love, one Lawrence could never measure up to. By then their relationship seemed more like a habit than a love affair. Even now with her leaving him, he hadn’t protested...much.

Think it over, my dear, he’d said. Nothing needs to change.

Wrong! Everything had changed eight weeks ago, and if he thought she’d hang around forever waiting for him to propose marriage, he’d been terribly mistaken.

She attributed her change of heart to losing her mother so suddenly last year. They’d been estranged over Marta’s chosen lifestyle when an aortic aneurysm had suddenly taken her life. She’d never even gotten to say goodbye. Losing her mother had cut to the core, and she’d been determined ever since to honor her mother’s memory with Lawrence. He, however, wasn’t on the same page—that was the phrase he’d used when she’d first brought up the subject.

Even now, with the new situation and her world turned upside down, he hadn’t budged in offering marriage.

She glanced at Leif again. Dark blond hair cut short, the kind that stuck up any which way it wanted, not the carefully styled spikes of younger men. His crystal-blue eyes had nearly drilled a hole through her head when he’d introduced himself. The guy was intense and focused on one thing—getting her where she needed to be for the next couple of months. That was fine with her. She needed this break, and the job had popped up at an opportune time. She needed the money. Granted, she’d been quite sure she had an edge in the final decision, being the great-great-granddaughter of Edgardo Hoyas, the Heartlandia town monument artist. This job would allow her to get away from home and her problems and regroup, to put a little money in her bank account so she could focus on the only thing important to her right now, the...

“You okay with staying at my house?” Leif broke into her thoughts.

She’d been told she would have her own wing in a large and beautiful home.

“Oh, yes, um, that should be fine. Thank you for offering.”

“Normally my guesthouse in the back is available, but I’m remodeling a house and the homeowners needed to store some things, and well, the woman had been renting the cottage from me for a couple of months—”

“I understand.” She cut him off, not needing to hear another word of his long and rambling explanation.

He glanced at her, then quickly returned his gaze to the highway. “I work long hours, so I won’t be around to bother you. And I keep to myself. So—”

More explanations. “We’ll work things out.” She should give the guy a break, since she could feel the sliceable tension in the cab.

She smiled, then noticed his poor excuse for a smile in return, but at least it softened his eyes. It also made a huge difference in his appearance. His wasn’t a bad face. Not by far. He had a ruggedness that appealed to her artistic instincts. The kind of face she’d like to paint, especially when he grew older. Craggy with character. That was what it was—he had character. She suspected that something besides working outdoors had stamped those premature lines in place. Being near him made her wonder—how would I depict this man on canvas?

The thought struck her. Even though Lawrence was profoundly handsome, she’d never desired to paint him. Photography was how she dealt with his classical good looks. The man belonged in pictures, not paintings, a subtle difference to most, but a deep divide in her right-dominant brain.

Why did Leif live in a huge house by himself? He didn’t wear a wedding ring. Was he yet another man unable to commit? But why the big house, then? A man wouldn’t build a big house without the intention of filling it with family, would he?

Quiet, brain. She’d been up since the crack of dawn to meet her driver to Flagstaff to catch her flight, then, because it seemed impossible to get a nonstop flight anywhere anymore, she’d spent more than six hours, including the layover, making her way to Portland. This highway was long and tedious, except for the lovely green pines. Her eyes grew heavy and she rested her head against the cool windowpane. She’d been far more tired than usual these past two months. Whirling emotions could do that to a person. And other things...

The silence in the truck and the vibration of the road soothed her, and soon she drifted off to sleep.

* * *

Leif pulled into his driveway and around the side of his house to the circular portion where he parked. Marta had slept contentedly for the past hour, which was fine with him. It gave him the opportunity to look at her without being obvious. She was hands-down beautiful, but even in sleep she tensed her brows. What was bothering her? Having to live with him? She’d said it wasn’t a problem, and these days most thirty-four-year-old women, especially an independent artist like her, would be fine with that. He tilted his head, his hunch about all not being right with her world growing stronger by the moment.

Stopping the car woke her up, which was just as well because any second now his dogs would come barreling around the corner making a happy racket.

“We’re here.”

She stretched and shook her head to knock out the sleep. “Oh, thanks. Wow. This is lovely,” she said, glancing across the yard toward the house.

He opened his door and jumped outside, and just as expected, Chip and Dale, one blond and one black, came running full out to the fence, barking as if they’d seen a wild turkey. “Hi, guys. Hush now.” They didn’t listen, just kept tossing those loud Labrador barks into the wind.

Marta crawled out of the cab, squinted and smiled. Good. She was okay with dogs. Because chances were they’d eventually break into her room and lick the living daylights out of her. Though he planned to keep them out of her studio. What a mess that would be.

He pulled her baggage from the back and they made their way up to the back door. Entering through the kitchen, he asked, “Are you hungry or thirsty? I can make you a sandwich or something to hold you over until dinner, if you’d like.”

“Water would be great, thanks.” She held her hat in her hand, and because the house was warm, she took off her poncho and folded it over her arm. Form-fitting black, straight-legged slacks hugged her curves with a simple white blouse tucked into the waistline. He’d been wrong—there wasn’t a turquoise bobble in sight. As he filled a glass with filtered tap water, she pulled the clasp from her hair and down came thick black hair curtaining her shoulders. He looked away and swallowed quietly.

“Here you go,” he said, handing her the water. “I’ll take these bags upstairs to your suite.” The sight of her standing in his kitchen made him need to put some distance between them.

* * *

Marta drank the water heartily and looked around. The kitchen was big enough for a staff of four. The huge granite-covered center island had a second sink in it, plus a food warmer and an enclosed temperature-controlled wine rack. Lawrence was rich and she was used to the finer things in life, but seeing this Architectural Digest–style kitchen in a contractor’s house surprised her.

She walked through a marbled entryway and into a grand room, again meticulously decorated, with a magnificent stairway and beautifully crafted, ornately carved dark walnut newel posts and railings. He’d made the wise decision to leave the matching hardwood steps uncovered, and the wood shone in what was left of the daylight radiating from the huge midceiling domed skylight.

Figuring she’d be sleeping upstairs, she took the steps and, once at the top, glanced around the wide and long upper-floor landing with accent tables and chairs, vases and paintings carefully chosen, not haphazardly picked from a decorator’s warehouse. Over the balcony a huge living room was tastefully furnished in relaxing sage and beige with pops of deep red and purple here and there. Wow. Impressive.

“I’m over here.”

She heard Leif’s voice coming from her left and followed it to the French doors filled with thick etched milky glass. Quality surrounded her.

“Here’s your room.”

He swung the doors open to reveal a huge bedroom complete with a fireplace in the corner with a chaise lounge in front of it, long sliding doors to an outside deck and several windows.

“But this is obviously the master bedroom. I don’t want to kick you out of your own room.”

“I sleep down there.” He pointed to the opposite end of the landing, to a single closed door. “Haven’t slept in this bedroom in three years.” He walked across the thick wool area rug to another set of French doors and opened them. “Besides, this can serve as your studio while you’re here. What do you think?”

It was an amazingly big studio with a high ceiling and three skylights, along with several other arched windows. It brought in as much light as the Oregon weather allowed in early fall.

“This space was used for quilting, reupholstering and furniture repair. You name it.”

Was?

Even with two long workstations and a sink area, there would still be plenty of room to sprawl out. The space was perfect for her planning and mapping out of the mural.

“It’s phenomenal—better than my studio at home. I love it.” She stared at him, searching for a reason for him to be so generous to a complete stranger. “Are you serious about this wing sitting empty?”

“Yes. I don’t even use three of the bedrooms. I probably should have sold and moved a couple of years ago, but I built this house, and it’s a part of me. I couldn’t bring myself to leave it behind.” He stood, knuckles on hips the way men sometimes do. Masculine as hell. Thoughtful, too. “You probably think I’m crazy living in this big place all by myself.”

“I don’t judge.” Who was she to comment on his choice of living? “I’m sure you have your reasons.”

His almost white brows lifted and his chin came up, as if he had something further to say, but he didn’t make a peep. Okay, so he had his reasons, and he wouldn’t be sharing them with her today. Besides, if she pried into his life, he might want to pry into hers, and that was definitely off-limits for now. She was damned if she’d share her latest news with him. They were strangers living in the same house for a time. End of story.

Besides, he’d find out soon enough.

He studied her as she checked out the studio, but from the corner of her eye she noticed him, too. He looked to be around six feet tall, lean yet solid, the kind of body a man earned from hard labor. His hand had felt rough when she’d shaken it earlier, and the naturally cut muscles lining his forearm and bulging beneath his sleeves hadn’t gone unnoticed. There was a term for a guy like him—a man’s man. The kind many women went crazy for.

Not her. She had other things to concentrate on for the next several months, and men had been kicked to the bottom of the list.

“Well, I’ll get out of your way so you can unpack if you want. The dresser is empty, and there’s a walk-in closet.” He turned to leave, then swung around again. “I’m starving, so I’ll be cooking dinner. If you’d like to join me later, I’ll give you a holler.”

She wasn’t hungry, but she knew she needed to eat. “That would be nice. Thank you.”

With that, he left her standing in the center of a bedroom big enough for a princess, wondering what had happened in his life three years ago and assuming it had something to do with a woman. Didn’t it always with a man like that?

Probably a broken heart.

That was something Marta could definitely relate to.

* * *

Leif caught himself humming while he cooked dinner and sipped wine. Cooking was one of the few things that brought him contentment. Well, that, his dogs and building houses, oh, and his favorite pastime, woodworking. See, his life wasn’t nearly as empty as he’d thought. Building was the one endeavor that he felt came anywhere near to being creative in Marta’s sense. He wouldn’t dare call his woodwork artistic, but he liked what he saw whenever he finished his mantels and built-in bookcase projects. He’d done all of the woodwork for his home, right down to the posts, and was proud of it. Ellen had loved his special touches throughout the house, and her being an interior designer, he’d loved hers, too. He hadn’t changed a thing since she’d died.

He took another sip of wine, then used clean hands to mash together the fine bread crumbs, parsley, minced fresh garlic and ground chicken with egg. He formed it into small meatballs and put them into the frying pan lined with olive oil. Not knowing what Marta’s eating habits were, he’d taken the safe route and used chicken instead of ground beef for the meatballs.

He couldn’t get Ellen out of his mind, maybe because of the new woman in the house. A dozen years ago, when he’d worked for his father and was still a bachelor, he’d make excuses to go back into the model homes they’d completed, knowing Ellen would be there. Her job was to stage the homes before the open-house events. He loved her style, and, more important, he liked the way he felt whenever he was around her. The first time she’d smiled at him, well, his world had changed forever.

He washed his hands, tossed the diced mushrooms into another pan, began to sauté them and took another sip of wine.

He’d taken a shower and thrown on fresh clothes after taking the dogs for their long afternoon walk through the hills. He’d put on his broken-in nicer pair of jeans instead of one of the dozens of work-worn pairs in his drawers. In lieu of a sloppy sweatshirt, his usual go-to, he’d chosen a polo shirt, one without any visible holes in it.

And he’d said he wasn’t going to let having a woman in his house change how he lived. Right.

The dogs had been fed, but they still sat expectantly behind him praying for fallout, no doubt. He added the sliced zucchini and diced sweet red bell pepper to the simmering mushrooms, threw in some salt and stirred. The water had started to boil in the third pot, and after he moved the meatballs around to brown on another side, he put the angel-hair pasta in the boiling water. And took another sip of wine as he hummed another nameless song.

Moments like these were the only remaining shadows of joy he once knew. Feeling good, he tossed each dog a cooked chicken meatball after blowing on it to cool.

The table had been set and the pasta was about ready. He’d told Marta he’d holler when dinner was served, but somehow that didn’t seem right. He’d given her plenty of time to unpack and get organized, so he turned everything down to simmer, quickly covered the distance from the kitchen to the stairway and took the steps two at a time to tap on her door. The dogs followed and beat him there. Just as he was about to knock, he saw her shadow behind the thick milky glass and the door swung open.

“Oh,” she said.

“It’s time for dinner.” The dogs watched her curiously. So did he.

She’d changed clothes. Had put on lounging-type pants and a bright green patterned tunic over a black tank top, which dipped low enough to display cleavage.

“Thanks,” she said. “I could smell the cooking up here.”

As they descended the stairs he said over his shoulder, “I hope you’re hungry.” He got a murmured response.

They entered the kitchen. She held back a little bit, but he pretended he didn’t notice.

“I’m having wine. It’s a blend of three whites and is pretty good. Would you like a glass?”

“Oh, no, thank you. Water will be fine. Actually, make that milk if you could.”

Okay, so she wasn’t a drinker. No problem. “Kent, my doctor, has me on fat-free milk. Is that okay?”

“Yes. Fine. Thanks. May I help with anything?”

“You can take the plates to the table while I get your drink. How much pasta?”

He used a pasta spoon to measure the cooked angel hair for her plate.

“A little less, please.”

They made eye contact so she could direct him on the portions for the sautéed veggies and meatballs. Either this one was a small eater, or she didn’t care for what he’d prepared. Either way, he wasn’t going to let it bother him. Then he served his own plate with generous portions and handed that to Marta, as well. She carried them to the table as an idea popped into his head. He’d wired the entire house for sound and rarely used it anymore. So he flicked a switch, and they had music to dine by. But then he quickly worried she’d get the wrong impression—like this was a date or something.

“Is music okay, or do you prefer silence?”

She listened to the light classical sounds and nodded. “It’s fine.”

He poured her milk, topped off his glass of wine and brought them both to the table. The basket of whole-grain sourdough bread was already in place. So was the butter. It had felt dumb for them to sit one at each end of the long dining table, and he thought it would be too casual to sit at the breakfast bar for their first dinner together, so he’d sat her to his left, like he and Ellen used to do.

They ate for a few minutes with the soft music in the background but without conversation. After a bite of the chicken meatballs, she complimented him on his cooking. She seemed to mostly move her food around the plate, eating very little. She did drink her milk and managed half a piece of bread, though.

He enjoyed his meal and decided not to worry about this grown woman. She could and would take care of herself. Maybe she was nervous about this new project. Or, even though she’d said she didn’t have a problem staying here with him, maybe she was uncomfortable about the living arrangements. He could make guesses all night.

“You’re a good cook,” she said again. “I wish I could eat more, but my stomach has been giving me fits lately.”

She did look a little drawn, but because of her olive complexion it was hard for him to tell if she was paler than usual.

“Sorry to hear that. I’ve got antacids if you need—”

“No. No. I’ll be fine. Thanks.”

There she went again cutting him off. His impression so far was she only tolerated being around him. He’d make a point to stay out of her way from now on.

But a meal was meant to be accompanied by conversation, and damn it, he couldn’t enjoy this delicious dinner—if he did say so himself—nearly as much in silence. Leif racked his brain for an ember to spark a conversation.

“So tell me about your work. Your studio. Your home in Sedona.”

She took a small bite of zucchini, then smiled. A genuine smile, and it almost pushed the wind out of his lungs. “Are you familiar with my work?”

“I’ve been to your website. You’re very talented. Obviously.”

“I’ve lived in Sedona for the past eight years, though I grew up in Phoenix. My father is still there. I was fortunate enough to acquire a benefactor who believed in my painting. Without him, I don’t know...well, I doubt I’d be nearly as successful.” She took a sip of milk.

“You seem to like to do landscapes. Do you paint outdoors?”

“Sometimes, but it gets terribly hot in Sedona several months of the year, so mostly I spend a few days taking photographs of what I want to paint at different times of day. I try to capture the perfect lighting, then I blow them up, cover my studio walls with the pictures and go from there.”

He thought of a few more questions to prod her along, but his mouth was full so he waited.

“I have an art showroom downstairs and I live upstairs where my studio is. I’m fortunate to have a small staff working for me so I can concentrate on painting.”

“You’re not married.” It sounded matter-of-fact, and maybe intrusive of her privacy, but he’d had a glass and a half of wine and just sort of blurted it.

“No.” She looked at her plate, but just before she did, the subtle crinkle of her brow made him wonder if he’d hit a sensitive nerve.

She was what, thirty-four? Did women these days still get touchy about being single after a certain age? What did he know? He’d lived in a cave for the past several years. At forty-two, he’d often felt his life was over in that department. Now, that was one hell of a pill to swallow for a perfectly healthy man, but, nevertheless, that was how he felt. He took another sip of wine; the glass was almost empty. He could save this sorry excuse for a conversation. He used to be good at it. Think back, Leif. Or, here’s an idea—pretend she’s a man.

“Well, I’ve got to tell you,” he said. “I think your painting will be perfect for the mural.”

“Thank you.” She still looked at her plate, moved some pasta back and forth.

“So walk me through this mural-painting process. I’m a novice.”

She popped a small piece of bread into her mouth and drank a sip of milk. Then she said, “I have to be honest and tell you I’ve never painted an entire mural before.”

Now, that was a surprise. Maybe that was what she was nervous about. Come to think of it, he’d only seen her huge canvas paintings at her website. She’d also submitted a preliminary mural design, which had helped the committee make their choice.

“But I’ve put a lot of thought into this project, and I’ve studied how it’s done. First, I lay my idea out on a grid. Since this is the biggest painting I’ve ever tackled, I’ll go about the process one step at a time. I’ve already started the grid and plan to paint it in the one inch to one foot scale first. After that I’ll transfer it to the wall one section at a time.”

So that was why she had three suitcases. One was probably filled with supplies.

“Will I need to prepare the walls for you?”

“Oh, good question. Yes, please.”

“Just tell me what you need and when and I’ll get her done.”

“Great, thank you. That won’t be for a while, though.”

They continued chatting about the steps to undertaking this project, both engaged and distracted from whatever other cares they had. He promised to take her to the college to see the outdoor walls soon. After she explained what needed to be done, he planned to remove the stucco and prep the walls to her specifications while she painted her smaller-scale grid.

After dinner she helped him wash the dishes, then she went on and on about how beautiful his house was and how extraordinary her living quarters were. Suddenly the day, and meal that had gotten off to a rocky start, was ending on a much better note.

Because she’d eaten so little, he showed her where the leftovers would be and several other choices for snacks, making sure she understood the mi casa es su casa philosophy they needed to agree on. It was called Scandinavian hospitality or the Viking code and the god Odin had originally laid down the law in the poem Havamal: “Fire, food and clothes, welcoming speech, should he find who comes to the feast.”

She thanked him again and said good-night, then quietly went up the stairs. He planned to take the dogs out for one last quick walk, but before he did, he watched her hair sway as she ascended the stairs and, to his surprise, he also noticed the twitch of her hips. But what man wouldn’t?

Having a woman in the house had already changed things. A life force was again coming from that end of the second floor. The often overbearing emptiness of the house seemed tamped back a bit, and it felt...well, it felt damn good.

Later, when he laid his head on the pillow, he tried to remember the last time he’d engaged a woman in a conversation for more than two minutes. Not counting women trying to engage him in conversation, like his guesthouse renter, Lilly, who was always full of questions about the town. But what could he expect from a reporter? Or little old ladies at the market with single daughters or granddaughters.

Nope, he’d initiated this conversation tonight, and somehow he’d managed to draw Marta Hoyas out of her shell, even if only for a little while. The thought made him happy, a foreign feeling for him. Well, he’d had a couple of glasses of wine, which probably helped that along.

Yeah, that had to be the reason for that goofy-feeling grin pasted on his face.

Not the beautiful woman from Sedona.